Таррин Фишер - The Wives

I have a flash of memory: a wheelchair, blood—plenty of blood—and the tense face of my husband as he leaned over me, assuring me everything was going to be all right. I’d half believed him at the time because that’s what love does. It gives you a sense of well-being—like bad things will evaporate under the strength of two people who adore each other. But it hadn’t been all right, and I’m much emptier in my marriage than when I arrived that first time.

I grimace at the memory. I bunch the sheets up at my neck, suddenly cold, turning on my side as I lie as still as possible. My head feels tender, like even the slightest movement could make unbearable pain explode. I want to see Seth. I want my mother. I want someone to tell me that everything is going to be all right, even if it’s not true. Why would he leave me here alone with no note, no explanation?

My eyes snap open, and very carefully I look around the room for my handbag or phone. No, the nurse said I’d been brought in by ambulance; my phone would be at home. I have the faintest memory of my handbag sitting near the front door—in the foyer. I’m suddenly very tired. The drugs , I think to myself. They’ve given me something for the pain and it’s going to knock me out. I let my eyes close and drift backward like a leaf floating in water.

When I wake up, there is a different nurse in the room. Her back is to me, a narrow braid hanging down the center of it, almost reaching her waist. She’s young—I’d guess not a year out of nursing school. Sensing my eyes on her, she turns and sees that I’m awake.

“Hello there.” She moves fluidly, like a cat—her shoulders rolling forward as she walks. She checks the monitor while I watch her, still too out of it to speak.

“I’m Sarah,” she says. “You’ve been sleeping for a while. How do you feel?”

“Better,” I croak. “Groggy. Do I have a concussion?” My throat hurts and I glance at the plastic water jug to my right. Seeing my look of longing, she pours me a fresh cup and I glance at her gratefully. I already like her better than Nurse Hard-ass from yesterday.

“Let me get the doctor to come talk to you now that you’re awake.”

“Seth...?” I ask as she heads for the door.

“He was here while you were asleep. But I’m sure he’ll be back soon...”

My lips pull away from the straw and a line of water runs down my chin. I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “What day is it?”

“Friday.” And then with an almost embarrassed laugh, she says, “TGIF.”

I refrain from rolling my eyes—actually, I don’t think I can roll my eyes. I feel like I’m underwater, my body moving like a piece of seaweed dragged along the ocean floor.

“Sarah...?” I call out. She’s halfway out the door, an almost-escape, when she peeps her head around the corner.

“What medication do they have me on?” Is my voice slurring or am I imagining it?

She blinks and I can see she doesn’t want to answer without the doctor speaking to me first.

“Haldol.”

I struggle to sit up, the lines in my arm tugging uncomfortably as I push aside the sheets. Haldol, Haldol, Haldol! My brain is screaming. Where is Seth? What happened? I try to remember the events that led me here and I can’t. It’s like trying to pound through a brick wall.

Sarah comes rushing back in the room, her face pinched with worry. I’m the patient they trained her for— keep her calm, call for help . I see her glance over her shoulder, trying to catch a view of someone in the hallway. I don’t want her to do that; they’ll fill me with more medication until I can’t remember my own name. I calm, relaxing my hands, smoothing out my face. Sarah seems to buy my show because she slows down, approaching the bed like someone would approach a live scorpion.

“Why am I on Haldol?” I’ve been on it once before. An antipsychotic that doctors only use in extreme cases of violent behavior.

Sarah’s face is blanched, her lips pursing and squishing for an answer. Silly girl, she’ll get the hang of it in a year or so. She’s required to tell me what drugs they’ve given me; she’s not required, however, to tell me why. I want to take advantage of her lack of experience before someone with more knowledge comes in, but then the doctor is there, his pinched face stern and unyielding. Sarah scurries from the room and he narrows in on me, tall and bent—the kind of figure that could be frightening, if you watch too many horror films.

“Haldol?” I ask again. “Why?”

“Hello to you, too, Thursday,” he says. “I’m hoping you’re comfortable.”

If comfortable means drugged up, then yes, I’m sure I am. I stare at him, refusing to play this game. I’m terrified, my stomach in knots, my brain fighting through the drugs to gain control. I want Seth to be here; I long for the reassurance of his unwavering confidence, and yet I’m disgusted with him, too. Why? Why can’t I remember?

“I’m Dr. Steinbridge. I was a consulting doctor on your case last time you were with us.”

“The last time Seth had me locked me up in the nuthouse?” My voice is hoarse. I lift a hand to touch my throat, then change my mind, dropping it to the sheet instead.

“Do you remember the circumstances that brought you here, Thursday?”

I hate the way he keeps saying my name. I grind my teeth, the humiliation sinking deep into my body. I don’t remember and admitting that will make me sound crazy.

“No,” I say simply. “I’m afraid the memories have disappeared along with my husband.”

Dr. Steinbridge makes no indication that he’s heard my snark. His long, gangly legs make their way over to the bed, and it looks as if the bones in them could snap at any moment and send him sprawling to the floor.

I don’t suppose if I ask directly where Seth is, he’d answer me, either. That’s the thing about these doctors—they answer questions selectively, often turning your own questions around on you. It’s funny that I’ve spoken to enough shrinks to know how they do things.

“I’m going to ask you some questions, just to rule out a concussion,” he says. “Can you tell me your name?”

“Thursday Ellington,” I answer easily. Second wife of Seth Arnold Ellington.

“And how old are you, Thursday?” he asks.

“Twenty-eight.”

“Who is the current president?”

I scrunch up my nose. “Trump.”

He chuckles a little at that one, and I relax.

“Okay, good, good. You’re doing great.”

He’s talking to me like I’m a child or slow of understanding. I’m irritated, but I try not to let on. I know how hospitals deal with uncooperative patients.

“Any nausea?” he continues.

I shake my head. “No, none.”

He seems pleased by my answer because he marks something off on his chart.

“Why can’t I remember coming here?” I ask. “Or what happened before?”

“It could be the hit your head took, or even stress,” he says. “When your brain is ready, it will impart those memories to you, but for now all you can do is rest up and wait.”

“But can you tell me what happened?” I plead. “Maybe it will trigger something...”

He twines his fingers, letting them drop to his waist as he stares up at the ceiling. He looks like a grandfather getting ready to recount a long-ago memory to a room full of grandkids instead of a doctor talking to a woman in a hospital bed.

“On Tuesday evening, you were in the kitchen. Do you remember?”

“Yes,” I say. “With Seth.”

He consults his chart. “Yes, that’s right. Seth.”

I keep my face even as I wait for him to say more. I won’t take the bait and prompt him, though I desperately want to know.